The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 371

Chapter 371: Goal-oriented

Oh shit may have been more applicable, honestly but the mechanic didn’t have the luxury of time to think about it as he slumped forward in his seat.

He did not envision this kind of reaction, especially from himself of all people.

He had just been so excited that he had apparently not even heard his good brother, who was still mid-sentence, saying, "—so maybe we should ask the elders about how to check if someone’s about to break through before using the enhancement manuals, just to be safe—"

CLICK.

"..."

It was a mistake, one he realized within a very short period of time.

As that was how the blonde found himself in a situation of contemplating death.

There was no gentle energy wave.

No soft warmth like everyone else described.

Instead, the lightbulb felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest.

THUMP.

Ollie’s eyes flew wide open.

He grabbed his shirtfront with both hands, face rapidly turning pale.

The Mylor couple, who were nearest to him, turned sharply at the sound of their son making increasingly high-pitched gasps.

"Ollie?!"

Meanwhile, Kyle, who was just a bit off to the side, stiffened as he heard those all too familiar sounds.

Without a word, he raised his hand sharply, signaling for the room to freeze.

The grim, yet successful memory of Terrance’s advancement still too fresh to forget the elder’s teachings.

The blonde started swaying slightly, hands trembling, as golden light flickered faintly around him.

Luca’s head snapped up in alarm, his mouth dropping open in panic.

Ollie wheezed weakly, his knees knocking together as he continuously clutched at his chest.

THUMP.

THUMP.

"Oh no!" whispered the shorter brother, as his voice caught in his throat.

He reached for Xavier, fingers trembling, as the prince smoothly stepped closer, bracing his wife protectively.

It was awful.

And Luca was certain that this was worse because, unlike Guard Terrence, who looked like he was going to power through the pain, his good brother looked all too pale for this.

But they couldn’t step in to do anything.

Ollie’s knees continued to clank together, his face paling as the golden light around him intensified. His breath hitched—once, twice—before his pupils contracted sharply, panic blooming in his wide, glassy eyes.

Marquise Julienne instinctively lurched forward, a strangled sound escaping her, only for the alarmed husband to catch her firmly by the shoulders, his grip gentle but unyielding.

And the worried father shook his head at her, understanding what she wanted to do but knowing that it would hurt their son more if they acted rashly.

They had to wait.

And pray.

And maybe bargain with the heavens, for their son—god bless this boy—really got himself into this mess by his lonesome!

But they weren’t alone in hoping and praying, as everyone in the room felt similarly affected by Ollie’s distress.

Luca’s fingers now dug helplessly into Xavier’s sleeve, his lips parting, but no sound came out. His chest rose and fell, shallow and rapid, eyes locked on his beloved brother’s shaking form.

He honestly felt like he was going through the breakthrough himself, but somehow thought that maybe it would be better if that were true.

Off to the side, Kyle felt helpless but knew that restraining himself was the best thing he could do at the moment. And maybe later, he could tie him up to prevent those little hands from touching the most random things.

But who was he kidding?

At best, he’d just have to supervise him better because even if those hands were tied, there was still the issue of his toes.

And frankly, the adjutant felt like it would be okay for the mop to randomly hit things or even blow up a few mines, provided he survives this one.

After all, wasn’t it a bit too unfair to get him to this state, all for the little guy to abandon him like this?

However, if unfairness was the issue, Ollie Astrea Mylor felt that he had been unfairly treated since the day started.

The poor mop was not okay.

"Just circulate it, Ollie! Move the energy—fill the spots that can still hold it. You’ll feel lighter, trust me!" remembered the mop who envisioned his good brother telling him this.

Back then, it had worked. He’d circulated and eased the pressure, and sure enough, the tension had drained.

And now?

Now, he realized with a jolt—this was the same, just...a hundred, no, a thousand times worse.

Though really, he hoped this was at least similar because this was all he could think about.

See, it wasn’t like he didn’t get the memo. In fact, everyone was actually taught how to cultivate, but Ollie always had a hyperactive mind that was either too busy or asleep, and so he had always had a hard time cultivating like others unless he was motivated.

And for Ollie Mylor, one of the strongest motivators just so happens to be food.

Food he wouldn’t be able to eat if he died like this.

And food he’d have to watch (from the other side) go to Kyle’s sweetheart, because he wouldn’t be there to enforce their most recent contract.

It was devastating, but surely motivating for the mop who had been hurting as he finally managed a difficult round of circulation.

And then another.

Then faster as he remembered to make space by distributing better for the sake of that day’s grand plans. Plans that ultimately had to do with the ice cream he wouldn’t be able to eat if he stayed like this.

Ollie gritted his teeth. His face scrunched up. His trembling fingers flexed faintly against his chest.

And, heart hammering, he focused.

He inhaled shakily—

Slow, slow, slow, then nudged the flood of energy forward, downward, and eventually, outward.

It passed through everywhere, like the worst gas he’s ever had in his life.

It was agonizing. His vision sparked faintly at the edges. Sweat poured down his back.

But slowly, ever so slowly, he felt it.

The pressure lightened.

The tightness eased as his pulse steadied just a little.

He had circulated—circulated just enough for the future ice cream he almost died to eat.

But the method didn’t matter, and no one would have to know, for in the eyes of his distressed loved ones, he had made it.